What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?
by Save vs. Magic
Summary: You despise clubs. And you hate New Year's Eve. But *she* wanted you here, so here you are. Because you, Justin Russo, are a sick man. Slight AU set after "Wizards Exposed". 'M' for violence/adult themes, not smut. Angsty 1-sided Jalex. Anti-Mason/Alason.
1. Chapter 1

**i.**

You don't _do _clubs. In fact, you kind of despise them.

They're hot, and crowded, and expensive. The lines are always too long, the music's always too loud and full of banal, obscene lyrics, half of which you don't even understand. And they never play _Tears of Blood_, or anything you might actually want to hear, anyway. They charge six bucks for a small can of domestic lite beer. (Not that you drink that much anyway, but just on principle alone, it's obscene.) And sure, the girls are nice to look at—tight jeans, short skirts, barely-there tops, lots of cleavage—but it's New York. So they all look back like they're too good for you, if they deign to look at all. And then there's the fact that you dance like a white boy who spent every Friday night in high school at home. Building robots. Painting D&D minis. Or leveling your gnome ice mage to 80. (So, in short, you don't.)

Now take all that and turn the dial up to eleven, and you have tonight: New Year's Eve.

You don't _do _New Year's Eve.

But it's the last New Year's Eve that Alex and Harper have together before they graduate—assuming that Alex _does _graduate—so the club was pretty much a given. And, for some inexplicable reason, she really wanted you there. (Probably because she knew how much you'd detest it. Because torturing you is her second-favorite hobby, after poking things with sticks.) And since you've never been able to say no to her—not when it was really important to her, anyway—you rolled your eyes, swallowed your misgivings about the fake ID she conjured up for you (that said you were twenty-one instead of nineteen), and promised her you'd come. Even though you knew it was a waste of a Friday night that could be better spent finishing your Intro to Modern Lit paper (or leveling your new worgen shaman alt to 85) and you'd hate every single second of it.

So, here you are, leaning against the bar. Overdressed in khakis and a dark blazer over a white T-shirt. Nursing a lukewarm, overpriced Bud Lite Lime that you won't even drink half of. Grimacing at the music and idly wondering what the hell a G-6 is even supposed to _be_.

Zeke and Harper are with you—which would normally be OK, since you know Zeke typically hates clubs as much as you do, and misery loves company—but ever since he got over his compunction to faint every time he so much as thought of Harper's lips, they've been going at it non-stop. Making up for lost time. So, naturally, they're sloppily making out next to you. It shouldn't bother you—after all, Zeke is your best friend and it's good to see him happy, plus it's finally gotten Harper off your back once and for all, thank God—but you can't help but grunt in annoyance and roll your eyes when he accidentally jabs you in the ribs with his elbow as he shifts his hold on her waist.

The hot blonde tending bar catches it. She tilts her head to the side to give you a look, her eyes full of pity. You shrug one shoulder at her as if to say _'it is what it is'_. She just smiles knowingly at you before she looks away and tends to her next customer. You resist the urge to roll your eyes again. Take a swig of your beer instead, only your third since you first ordered it forty-five minutes ago.

Forty-five minutes. Ugh. Scowling, you check your watch again for what seems like the hundredth time since you got here. Cripes, where in the name of Captain Jim-Bob Sherwood _is_ Alex, anyway? The sooner she gets here, the sooner you can _leave_, already. And maybe even manage to get home in time to watch the ball drop in Times Square on TV...

Speak of the devil. Even as you complete the thought, the crowd before you parts as if by magic. (Which is probably actually the case, if you know your sister even half as well as you think you do.) Alex sweeps in like she owns the place, with a vaguely familiar, generic-looking bad boy douchebag on her arm. She's straightened her hair and put on an impressive amount of make-up, the way she always does when she's trying to pass for older. She's wearing a strapless, glittery blue mini-dress that clings tightly to every curve of her slender figure like a second skin, with a slit up each side almost all the way up to her hip. And though you know she's a small B-cup at best, her breasts are still spilling out over the top of her dress, as though they might actually pop out of it if she so much as takes a deep breath. You wonder idly if she bought it a size too small on purpose, or if there's some kind of cleavage-enhanching charm she's discovered that you don't know about.

The overprotective older brother in you grimaces at the sight of her. At the way seemingly every guy in the club turns his head to check out her legs or her ass as she passes. But even as Alex glimpses Harper at the bar and shoves Zeke aside to envelop her in a hug, you find your own eyes drawn down to the tight curves of her behind.

Because...well, goddamn.

And that's when you remember why you agreed to this in the first place, even though you never really forgot. Why you've never been able to say no to her, even when it wasn't particularly important to her. And you start to hate yourself all over again, even though you've never really stopped.

Because as attractive as Alex is, and as fine an ass as she has, there's rules against this sort of thing. Laws, even. And every single one of them say that you, Justin Russo, are a sick, sick man.

After what seems like an eternity, you finally tear your gaze away from your sister's (incredible) rear end, overcome with familiar alternating waves of want, longing and shame. You close your eyes and try to pretend you _haven't _just sprung wood at the sight of your baby sister in a tighter-than-tight dress. Raising your beer to your mouth, you take a long pull on the can to distract yourself. But, because you're you, part of it naturally goes down the wrong way. You start to choke, doubling forward to cough violently.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, somebody's hand starts pounding you on the back between your shoulder blades, nearly knocking you to the floor. And it helps with the coughing and all, but _ow! _You start to wave them off even before you've fully caught your breath, afraid that one more thud like that might actually drive your spine clear through your chest.

"You all right, bud?" somebody shouts in your ear, still barely audible over the pounding bass of whatever godforsaken rap "song" they're playing now.

You cough weakly one last time and nod. Wipe the back of your hand across your mouth and stand upright. And you find yourself looking into the grinning face of the douchebag Alex has brought with her tonight.

Oh. Great.

"Goes down smooth, huh?" he jokes, and glances down at the can you're holding to see what you're drinking. "Maybe you oughta switch to something without so much kick, man. Like, uh...I dunno, Kool-Aid?"

You blink at this, then narrow your eyes at him. You feel your cheeks burning as your mind races, struggling to come up with a witty retort to put this complete and utter douche in his place. But before you can so much as open your mouth, he throws his head back and cackles—actually cackles—then reaches up to punch you in the shoulder, so hard that you spill a little of your beer onto your good church shoes.

"Just kidding, bro, just kidding," he says, as though this should somehow excuse him ruining a pair of perfectly good shoes. "You're Lexi's brother, yeah?"

"Lexi?" you frown. Who the frakking frak is Lexi? "Wait, do you mean Alex?"

"Alex, yeah...sorry, Lexi's like my pet name for her, or whatever."

"Cute,"' you say, without enthusiasm. Because, seriously, Lexi? It makes her sound like a comic book super villain! Which, yes, is oddly fitting if you really stop and think about it, but...seriously, _Lexi?_

And while you've been processing all that, Douchebag has been staring at you. Awkwardly. He raises one eyebrow slightly. "So...you're her brother, then?"

"That I am. Lexi's big brother," you say, your voice positively dripping with derision, though you suspect that the subtle nuance of your tone is probably lost on this dude. Especially given that you're competing with _Whip My Hair_. But then—because you weren't raised in a barn and there's no excuse for discourtesy, even in the face of utter douchery—you extend your hand to him.

"Justin," you introduce yourself.

He grips it tightly, and practically grinds it into a fine powder as he gives it a shake. "Yeah, that's me," he grins.

You blink at him, puzzled enough that you ignore the crushing pain in your hand. "Wait, I'm sorry? Did I miss a step?"

"Sooooo, _this _is awkward," Alex says then, breaking into the conversation as she sidles up next to Douchebag, picks his arm up by the wrist and drapes it across her bare shoulders. "Justin, this is that lame older brother I've been telling you about, also Justin."

You look from her, to him, and back again. "You're kidding."

"Oh, wild!" Douchebag says, pumping and squeezing your hand even harder. "Dude, we have the same name!"

"Spectacular," you grunt, twisting your elbow awkwardly to free your hand, before all you're left with is a bloody stump. "I couldn't be more thrilled that we have this in common."

"I know, right?" Douchebag shouts. "Effed up!"

"The effed uppedest," you say drily, one eyebrow raised. "Normally I'd say that at least this gives you a fifty-fifty chance of remembering what my name is. But let's be honest, I'd just be kidding myself, wouldn't I?"

Douchebag looks at you blankly, clearly trying to work out whether he's just been insulted or not, then slowly breaks into a grin and begins to nod. "Oh, I get it: because I'm gonna get so wasted, I'll forget my own name, huh?"

"That's one hypothesis, sure," you shrug. (Ooo, sick burn.)

Alex scowls at you, even as her boyfriend-of-the-moment throws his head back and cackles again. Douchebag may not be able to discern snark to save his life, and you're not especially conversant in it, yourself, but Alex speaks it like a second language.

"Justin, knock it off," she snaps. "Quit acting like such a dick."

"Sorry," you and Dumbass both say sheepishly, in the same breath, then look at each other. Him, in surprise. You, in annoyance. Alex rolls her eyes dramatically.

"Yeah, so _that's _gonna get old quick," she snorts loudly over the music. "We need to find something else to call one of you."

"I already have something in mind," you say, earning you another scowl from Alex.

"Well, most of my boys call me J-Man," Douchebag offers.

You glare at him, even as you see a smirk blossom on Alex's face out of the corner of your eye. "Of course they do," you mutter darkly.

"D'awwwwww, how precious!" Alex coos, her dark eyes dancing as she watches for your reaction. "And did you pick that out for yourself?"

"What?" Douchebag scoffs at her. "Um, no. What kind of lame asshole picks out his own nickname?"

"Exactly," she says, smiling smugly at you, even as you feel your cheeks begin to burn. And though you're not six anymore, and haven't been for a long time, you really have to fight the urge to stick out your tongue at her. Old habits.

"Pick it out myself," Douchebag repeats, chuckling and shaking his head at Alex, amused. He turns his gaze back to you, then jerks his chin back towards her. "Chicks, huh bro? Am I right?"

"Indeed," you nod sagely, although you're not quite sure what it is about them that you're supposed to be agreeing with, exactly. "Chicks."

"Aaaaaand that's all the time we have tonight for male bonding," Alex says, turning to Douchebag and jerking one thumb over her shoulder. "Shots. Dancing. Now."

"Whatever you say, baby," he grins at her, and gestures towards the bar. "Tonight, anything Sexy Lexi wants, Sexy Lexi gets."

"Aw, it's adorable that you think that's limited to tonight," Alex grins, reaching up to pat him gently on the cheek. "Isn't it, egghead?"

"Not if he's smart enough to cut and run while he still can," you say flatly, grimacing as you take a sip of your beer. "But, really, what are the chances of that?'

Alex shoots you a cutting look as she unwinds Douchebag's arm from around her shoulders, and tugs him in the general direction of the bar. "Later, loser. Try not to bore yourself to sleep before midnight hits, huh?"

"Don't worry," you sneer back. "I'm sure all the hooting and hollering will wake me up when Sexy Lexi inevitably pops out of her ridiculous dress."

Douchebag's eyes light up like Rockefeller Center at Christmas at the prospect, earning him a look from Alex that's at least as dirty as the one she gives you as she moves away.

Douchebag rolls his eyes and shrugs as she pulls his away, then hangs back at the last second and points at your Bud Light. "Brewski for you-ski? Or you good for now?"

Wow, seriously? _"Brewski for you-ski?"_ Heavens to Mergatroid, where did she _find_ this guy? The set of _Dude, Where's My Car, Too?_

"I'm good, thanks," you say, smiling tightly, hoping he takes the hint and goes the hell away, already. "Pacing myself."

"Right on, broham," he says, giving you a thumbs up. "But come find me once the chicks hit the floor, and we'll _really _get our drink on, fo' sho'!"

You nod at him noncommittally, holding up your beer in a kind of half-hearted toast, but he's already forgotten about you as Alex yanks him over to the bar to pay for the line of shots the hot blonde bartender is already lining up for them. He leers at her over the top of Alex's head, even as he slides his hand down your sister's side until it's resting on her ass.

The blonde doesn't so much as acknowledge him at all, but she does glance up once in the middle of pouring, her heavily-mascara'ed blue eyes flitting from you to Alex and back again, and shoots you another pitying look.

Swell. Man, are you really so smegging obvious?

Groaning in frustration, you turn your back on the three of them and reach behind the seemingly three dozen people who have managed to worm their way into the small space that was between you and Zeke, and poke him on the shoulder. He ignores you, even after three tries, so you resort to smacking him upside the head. Finally, this gets his attention, and he and Harper come up for air for the first time in what seems like an eon. He blinks at you dazedly, his face flushed.

"Hey, what's up?" he asks with a grin, his voice cracking as he struggles to be heard over the music. "Everything OK, J-Man?"

You wince and groan audibly. "Zeke, don't call me that."

"What? Don't ball your cat? I don't know what that—"

_"I said don't call me J-Man!"_

Zeke blinks at you in confusion. "But I thought you loved being called J-Man, J-Man! Heck, you _asked_ me to! Remember, back in Grade 10, when we met in Alien Language League? And I asked you what your name was? _'Call me J-Man!' _you said..."

"Ugh, just forget it!" you groan, scrubbing your face tiredly with your hand. You glare past Zeke at Harper, who's been listening to your exchange with amusement as she occupies herself by blowing in his ear. "Harper, what the hell? You couldn't have warned me that Alex was bringing another guy, tonight? Or that his flipping name was _Justin_?"

"Woah, seriously?" Zeke asks, his eyebrows shooting so high on his forehead that they threaten to launch into orbit. "Alex is dating a guy named Justin? Holy double-you-tee-eff, Batman!"

"I tried to talk her out of it, Justin, honest," Harper says, and she at least has the good grace to look sheepish about it. "And not just 'cause it's...icky...either. We barely know him—he just started at NYU around the corner from the Sub Station in the fall—but he doesn't have the greatest reputation when it comes to girls. Or, um, anything else, really. Actually, from everything I've heard, he's kind of a—"

"Wannabe fratboy douchebag?"

Harper flushes darkly, and shrugs. "Not the phrase I would have chosen, but if the bag fits..."

"But what the hell is she even doing wasting her time with somebody like that?" you demand, craning your neck to try and see her over the heads of the crowd. "And what the friggin' frig is she wearing?"

"Oh, _that_," Harper says, her voice heavy with disapproval. "I swear her dress was at least two sizes larger when I left the house. Just between us, I'm pretty sure she—" Harper breaks off with a quick look at Zeke, then turns her eyes back to you and wiggles her eyebrows meaningfully—"uh, had it _specially altered_, if you catch my drift?"

"What, in forty-five minutes?" Zeke whistles, impressed. "Man, that's one quick-working seamstress! I can't even get a pair of pants hemmed that fast!"

"Terrific," you growl. You give up trying to find Alex in the shifting crowd, and turn around to slump against the bar, leaning heavily on your elbows. "So she's really into this dipstick, then. She's actually going out of her way to encourage him. "

"Mmm, yes and no," Harper says, cocking an eyebrow. "She's certainly going out of her way, but I don't think it's for _his _benefit, at all."

"No?" You straighten up suddenly in spite of yourself, wondering a second too late if they hear more than just idle curiosity and brotherly concern in your voice. "If not him, than who—?"

"Who else?" Harper sighs, nodding towards you, her eyes fixed on a point somewhere to your left. Blinking, you swivel your head in the direction she's looking...and find yourself overcome with a all-too-familiar surge of jealousy and loathing as you realize who she means.

"Oh, of course," you say bitterly. "_Him_."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Just a word of warning to my regular readers, this story comes from somewhat of a different place than my usual light-hearted fare. It's also my first foray into writing both angst and in second-person, so please adjust your expectations accordingly. )

A copious amount of gratitude goes to my lovely and talented beta, **Not Just A Nerd**, who helped to tighten it up where necessary, and more or less held my hand throughout. This is another story that would be sitting unfinished on my hard drive, were it not for her encouragement to finish.

Thanks! Hope you enjoy it!


	2. Chapter 2

**ii.**

The werewolf is slumped dejectedly against the bar, pretty much mirroring your own pose from a moment ago—slumped back against the bar, weight supported by his elbows—and looking at least as miserable as you feel. And every few moments, he lifts himself up on his tiptoes and stretches his neck as high as he can, no doubt keeping an eye on Alex the way you've been trying to do. Unlike you, though, he also raises his nose towards the ceiling, and closes his eyes and he inhales deeply. Or cocks his head to the side ever so slightly, as if he's listening for something over the pounding bass. Then, scowling, he lowers himself back down against the bar, brooding, his jaw subtly working back and forth as he grinds his teeth, before he stands back up on his toes to repeat the entire process.

"For the record, I think it's awful, what she's doing," Harper says into your ear, over the music and the din of the crowd. "I know they've been off and on ever since he got back, but it's just plain mean of her to torture him, like this."

"Torture _him_?" you say out loud, before you can stop yourself.

"Well, yeah," Harper says to you, slowly and deliberately, as though she's explaining something to a small child. "She's only here with Jus—with the _other _Justin, I mean—to make Mason jealous."

"Wait," Zeke frowns, "I thought they just got back together, though. Didn't they?"

"That was _last _week, honey," Harper says pityingly, patting his arm. "Try to keep up."

"Doggone it, this is so flaming typical of her!" you groan, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes, against the headache you can feel building behind them. "Hey, let's deliberately provoke the guy with a track record of _eating people_ when he gets jealous. Only, this time, let's do it when Max _isn't _around to shrink the victim, so that they get swallowed whole instead of torn to bloody ribbons. Yeah, great plan, Alex! Woo!"

"Well, you know Alex," Harper says wryly. "Always poking things with sticks. In her defense, though, I think that's why she's brought Jus—I mean, the _other _Justin. She probably suspects nobody will miss him even if he does get eaten..."

"OK, no more drinks for me," Zeke chuckles. "That's twice now I swear I've heard you say that Mason _eats _people. Crazy, right? Man, I must be LOOPED!"

You and Harper share a guilty look before you turn back to him. "Uh, all you've had to drink so far is a Red Bull, Zeke. Without anything added to it."

"Right! Straight up! And I am CUT OFF!" Zeke shouts, raising both fists above his head. "HAPPY NEW YEAR! WOOOO!"

You stare at him blankly as the crowd surrounding him goes wild, raising their drinks to the ceiling and wooing loudly in response. Harper grins up at him with a combination of disbelief and unabashed adoration. You roll your eyes and touch her arm to draw her attention before they can start making out again.

"Uh, Harper?" you shout over the crowd. "He does know there isn't any actual _alcohol _in Red Bull, yeah?"

"I don't think so," Harper yells back, grinning widely, "but I think I'mma let this play out and see where it goes!"

You look from her to Zeke, who's started jerking awkwardly along to Jay Z's _Give It To Me_ like an epileptic on a caffiene drip. Harper drops into step behind him, mimicking his movements. It takes about twenty seconds of watching this for you to realize that they're _dancing_, for lack of a better word. Horrified, your cheeks begin to burn, as you find yourself suddenly so overwhelmed with second-hand embarrassment that you can't _not _turn away.

And right about then is when you decide you'd actually rather go hang with the werewolf. Which is saying something, since you kind of really can't stand the guy.

Sighing inwardly, you elbow and shuffle your way through the undulating mass of bodies towards him, and arrive none too soon. By the time you reach his side, he's leaning halfway over the bar and screaming bloody murder at the hot blonde behind it, red in the face. She glares back at him, arms crossed beneath her ample cleavage, unintimidated and clearly not impressed.

"Listen, you stupid bint," he shouts, with more than a hint of a feral growl in his voice, "I was drinking hard cider before your ponce of a great grandfather was old enough to wipe his own bottom! So shut your gob and pull me a bloody pint of Strongbow, already!"

You blink at him in surprise. _Bint? Ponce? Gob?_ Wow, _somebody_ gets really beligerently British when he's pissed-off, doesn't he?

"Show me an I.D. that's not such a pathetically obvious fake, and I'll think about it," the blonde says flatly.

"It's fake because I'm actually over three hundred years old, you ridiculous cow! It was good enough to get me in, wasn't it?"

The blonde snorts in response. "Yeah, I saw the skank you came in behind. If Eddie stopped looking at her tits long enough to even notice you _had _I.D., I'd be amazed. But do me a favor, junior: call me a ridiculous cow again, and let's see how that turns out for you."

Mason's eyes go wide as all the color drains from his face, and his lips begin to curl over glistening white teeth. And your blood turns to ice water in your veins, because you've seen that look before. Directed at you. Right before he went full wolf and lunged at you with the intention of ripping your throat out.

So, yeah. Not good.

"Uh, the skank in question is his sort of his girlfriend, actually," you break in, laying a warning hand on Mason's arm even as you smile at the blonde with all the charm you can muster. "And he really is telling the truth about being old enough to drink. Um, tits notwithstanding. Honest."

Both Mason and the blonde turn their heads to blink at you in surprise. The werewolf growls in the back of his throat and tries to yank his arm away from you, but you keep your hand where it is, even though you know it means you risk losing it in a second. The blonde notices, but keeps her blue eyes trained on yours, the corners of her mouth turning up ever so slightly.

"This asshole with you?" she asks.

You hesitate for a second, just long enough to be noticeable by all involved. Because, as previously mentioned, you sort of really can't stand the guy, what with him having tried to kill you that one time, and all. But taking responsibility for Alex's messes is what you _do_, what you've _always _done. So you sigh in resignation and nod.

"Yeah, he's with me," you say. "Well, more or less."

"And you swear that he's legal?" she asks, narrowing her eyes at you. "Because if I'm caught serving a minor, it's my ass. You get that, right? I will _lose my job_."

"Cross my heart and hope to die," you say earnestly, making an X on your chest with your index finger. Then you hold up your right hand with three fingers pointing towards the ceiling, the boy scout salute. "Scout's honor."

The blonde blinks at you again before breaking into an amused grin, her eyes sparkling. "Well, OK then," she nods, then turns her back to you, grabs a pint glass, places it under the tap, and begins filling it with Strongbow.

"Oh, sod a dog...seriously?" the werewolf grunts, shaking his head. "_Him, _you believe."

"I always did have a thing for boy scouts as a kid," she shrugs, winking at you as she places the pint of cider in front of him. "Seven fifty, please."

You start to reach for your wallet before Mason snarls at you that he can pay for his own bloody drink, and yanks a crumpled ten dollar bill out of his own pocket. He shoves it at her roughly, muttering for her to keep the change. She thanks him curtly, then flashes a quick smile at you before turning away to the register.

"You're welcome," you say pointedly, as the werewolf takes a gulp of his drink.

He glares at you fiercely out of the corner of his eye as he upends the glass, downing nearly half the pint at once before he slams it back down onto the bar. You've never seen him drink before, so it's more than a little unnerving to see. Mason sober can be volatile at the best of times. You really don't want to think about what he's like when he's drunk.

"You have no idea how frustrating it can be to be _older than the United States of America _but be stuck looking like you're only seventeen," he snarls.

"I didn't hear you complaining when that bagged you my underaged sister, old man," you reply, with a little more venom than you intend. "You'll pardon me if I don't cry for you, Argentina."

Mason snorts at you and looks down at his pint as though he might find the meaning of life at the bottom of it. "Yes, well...the less said about her, the better."

"Uh-huh," you say, taking a sip of your beer and wincing at how warm it's gotten. "What happened this time? Did you break up with her or did she break up with you?"

"I'd rather not talk about it," the werewolf grunts.

"So she broke up with you, then," you conclude, unable to help the smile that ghosts across your lips at the thought. "Wizards' Council interfering again? I thought now that she's back in the game as far as the competition's concerned, they'd leave you alone. For the time being, anyway."

"The Council had bugger all to do with it. And it was completely mutual, thank you very much," Mason snaps. Then, raising his pint glass to his lips, he mutters, "Apparently it's better if we go back to just being friends."

"Apparently? Yeah, that sounds _real _mutual," you grin, unable to resist twisting the knife a little. And OK, so maybe that doesn't make you any better than Alex, but this is the jerk who cost you Juliet, after all. Among other things.

"Oh, bugger off and leave me alone, won't you? I just said I don't want to talk about it. Least of all with you."

"Uh, if it's solitude you're looking for, you've come to entirely the wrong place," you point out, gesturing at the gyrating crowd surrounding you. "So then riddle me this, Scrappy-Doo: what the heck are you doing here?"

Mason chuckles bitterly into his cider as he takes another gulp, then licks a droplet of foam off his upper lip. "Isn't it obvious? Same thing you are, mate."

"Really," you say flatly. "And what, pray tell, would that be? Because from my perspective, it looks an awful lot like you're jealously stalking my baby sister, which I'm _pretty _sure I'm not doing..."

Mason snorts as though he finds this hilarious, and looks up at you sardonically.

"I'm punishing myself, aren't I?" he says casually, swirling the remains of his drink in his pint glass, "For being daft enough to fall for a girl who's clearly no better for me than I am for her. Paying through the nose to drown my sorrows and wallow in self-pity whilst I watch the object of our mutual affection snog with the leading candidate for Tosser of the Year. "

"Mutual—?" Your entire body stiffens at this, as your blood runs to ice water in your veins. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh, come off it, Justin. You think I don't know?" Mason reaches up to tap his index finger against the tip of his nose. "Werewolf, remember?"

You frown at him. "And...?"

Mason rolls his eyes at you, then leans forward as though he's explaining something to a very small, very dull child. "You see, Justin, the human body produces these invisible little chemicals called 'pheromones', and—"

"I _know_what pheromones are, you idiot," you snap at him uneasily, not liking where this is going.

Mason leans back and shrugs as he picks up his pint glass again. "Well, right now you're putting them out like a bitch in heat."

"Am not," you say defensively, even as you inwardly kick yourself for how childish you sound. Ugh.

"Oh, trust me, you are," Mason smiles knowingly. He downs what's left in his glass, then slams it back down onto the bar. "You always _do_. You quite literally _reek_ of lust and guilt and jealousy and need. Hell, even when she's _not_around, the stench clings to you like a cloud of dust swirling about...oh, what was the name of that kid in that holiday cartoon thing you made us watch last week? The little dirty one. Pigsty."

"Pig_pen_," you correct him haughtily, because correctly remembering the name of a minor character from _A Charlie Brown Christmas _is the only high ground you have left to cling to.

"That's the one," Mason nods, snapping his fingers and pointing at you. "And when she _is _around? It's overwhelming. It fills the bloody room until I can't smell anything else. Why else do you think I can't stand being around you?"

You glare at him wordlessly for a moment, a burning flush spreading from your face down the back of your neck, to the rest of your body, making you feel like it might spontaneously combust at any given moment. He cocks an eyebrow at you in amusement, and pointedly sniffs the air between you.

"Hmm, is that a whiff of fear I detect, just now?" he smirks. "Fear that I know the truth, maybe?"

"Don't be ridiculous!" you snarl at him, turning away and crossing your arms on the bar. "That's disgusting! Alex is my _sister_!"

"Aaaaaaaand now we're back to guilt," Mason grimaces, leaning away from you and wrinkling his nose. "Along with a truly hideous hint of what I can only suspect is self-loathing..."

"Bull," you very nearly curse, uncharacteristically, without looking at him. And it sounds more than a little desperate, even to your ears. "Pheromones don't work that way. You're just trying to gross me out so I'll go away and leave you alone to stalk Alex to your heart's content."

Mason smirks at you again, but this time there's a pitying look in his eyes. (And, cripes, but you wish everybody would stop doing that.)

"Lie to yourself all you like, Justin," he says, "but you can't lie to me. The nose knows."

You exhale sharply, in kind of a half-laugh, half-snort. "Uh-huh. Whatever you say, Toucan Sam."

Mason frowns at this in puzzlement. "Who's—?"

But then he breaks off abruptly as his gaze snaps towards the dance floor, and he draws himself up to his full height and stands at attention, like a hunting dog who's just heard rustle in the bushes. You blink at him, then turn partway round to look over your shoulder for what's captured his attention. And your breath hitches in your throat as you suddenly understand.

There, in the middle of floor, with her eyes closed and a vodka cooler clutched in one hand, Alex Russo raises both arms over her head and rhythmically grinds her (incredible) rear end against the crotch of her leering, utter douchebag of a date, surrounded by at least a hundred other guys who ignore their own dates to watch hungrily, wishing it were them.

And, goddamn it all to hell, you're one of them.

Standing side-by-side, you and Mason glare at them, and even over the pounding bass of..._whatever_this is they're grinding to...you can still hear the low growl rumbling in the back of Mason's throat. And even though you're almost positive that nobody would even notice if he were to go full-wolf—not given the spectacle Alex is making of herself out there—you still lay a restraining hand on his shoulder. He wheels on you and shrugs it off, his eyes burning.

"Hey, take it easy," you order him, patting the air between you with one hand, even as you gradually lower one hand down to your pants pocket, where your wand is stashed. He notices, his eyes flicking from your face to your hand and back, then takes a deep breath and nods sharply, rolling his shoulders and forcing his hands to unclench with a visible amount of effort.

"Thanks," he mutters, somewhat reluctantly. "I almost...I mean, I very nearly—"

"And if I thought we could get away with it, I think I might actually have let you," you admit, abandoning all pretense for the moment. Because if he really can smell it all over you, then what's the point, really? He blinks at you in surprise, and you reply with a lazy half-shrug, a mannerism you've picked up from Alex.

"His name," you say bitterly, by way of explanation, "is Justin."

"No," Mason goggles at you. "You're joking. It's not, really. You're just taking the piss."

"God's honest truth," you sigh, turning your head to watch them again with a sneer. "His 'boys' call him J-Man."

Mason blinks at you again as he processes this. And then he surprises you by laughing out loud, erupting into a series of short, sharp barks as he doubles over at the waist, grabbing your elbow to keep himself upright. You stare at him flatly, then roll your eyes and drain the rest of your beer as you wait for him to finish.

"It's not funny," you protest as he finally begins to trail off.

"No, it's bleeding tragic, is what it is," he chuckles with a shake his head. "So...what do we do now?"

"If we were smart," you reply, carefully depositing your empty beer can on the bar behind you, "we'd just get the hell out of here."

"Mmmmm, true," Mason nods, sagelike. "_If _we were smart."

You stand there for a moment in mutual silence, considering the idea, as the crowd around you sways drunkenly to some godawful hit by Katy Perry. Out on the dance floor, Alex has turned to face Douchebag and looped her arms behind his neck, fixing him with a smouldering gaze as he kneads her ass through her too-short dress with both hands.

"Jager shots?" Mason suggests.

You turn and cock a skeptical eyebrow at him. Because getting smashed on overpriced, glorified rubbing alcohol with your sister's jerkass, perpetually jealous werewolf ex-boyfriend as the two of you watch her engage in public foreplay with your complete douchebag of a namesake is quite possibly the worst, most poorly thought-out idea you've ever heard in your entire life. (And given who your little brother is, that's really saying something.)

"First round on you?" you ask, in spite of all this.

Mason shrugs. "Sure."

"Right on, broham," you say, in bad imitation of Douchebag's voice, as you lean over the bar to signal the hot, blonde waitress. "Then let's get our drink on, fo' sho'."

Because, what the hell? Like Max always says, 'when in Rome, make romanade', right?

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Yeah, I'm aware that Mason comes off a little OOC here, but for a English ex-pat who's at least a couple hundred years old, I don't feel they write him nearly British _enough_ on the show. Granted, we don't know how long he's been living in the colonies...but either way, I'm claiming artistic license. Just chalk it up to him being _really_ pissed-off, OK?

Huge thanks once again go to **Not Just a Nerd**, who beta'ed this for me. If it's real angst you're looking for, she writes it much more effectively than I do, so go read her stuff.

And thanks also to _you,_ for sticking with this one even though it's pretty far afield from my usual style. Especially those of you who have been waiting patiently for an update to my other ongoing story, _OTP_, the next chapter for which should be dropping shortly. :P I've been working on both concurrently, and this just happened to be ready first.

And finally, my sincere gratitude to everyone who's reviewed, favorited or added myself and/or this story to their alerts. Your kind encouragement is greatly appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

**iii.**

Forty-five minutes later, it's about twenty to midnight, and you've completely lost track of how much you've had to drink. But you do know that the billfold of your wallet is empty, and that the credit card you signed up for during your first week at college, just in case of emergencies, has seen more use in one night than it has in the four months leading up to it. The room bucks and sways around you in counterpoint to the music as you lean heavily against the bar, one elbow propped on Mason's shoulder as though you're old friends.

"Oh OK, here's another one," Mason says, slumping against you, slopping half a shot of Jagermeister over the back of his hand as he raises one finger to make a point. He blinks at it, then shrugs and licks it off before he continues."The way she always goes to the loo righ' before you order, so she can test to see if you know what she wants."

You scowl and nod emphatically. "And then she acts like such a smegging _brat_ if you get it wrong."

"Exactly! Like you're supposed to be able to read her sodding mind!"

"I know, right?" You toss back a shot of your own, wincing at the way it burns all the way down, then wipe your mouth off on the sleeve of your blazer. "I mean, sure she always orders a chili cheeseburger with curly fries inside the bun and a chocolate shake with whipped cream on the bottom, every single time, but who the frak can be expected to _remember_ all that?"

"Uh, yeah," Mason says uncertainly. "Or that she likes her popcorn doused with, um...wait...is it vinegar, or—?"

"Pickle juice," you reply, taking his empty shot glass from him and setting it down carefully on the bar next to your own.

Mason frowns and wrinkles his nose. "Pickle juice? No."

"Oh yeah, trust me on this. With hot sauce. Heavily salted. Ugh. Oh, and don't even get me _started_ about how she takes her pizza..."

"Mmmm." Mason narrows his eyes as the companionable tone goes right out of his voice. "And then there's the way she's total crap at sucking cock."

"Like, who in their right mind orders pineapple _and_ anchovies on the same—" You break off as what he just said catches up to you, and whip your head around to stare at him. "Wait, what?"

"You know, gobbling the old knob?" Mason says casually, smirking at you. "Smoking the pole? The only way I could ever get your sister to do it would be to go down on her first, and then kind of twist us around into a sixty-nine."

"Ah ha," you say, your stomach lurching as you look away down the bar on the pretense of flagging down the bartender again.

"And even then, it was the most half-hearted blowjob you've ever had," Mason continues, despite the discomfort you're doing your damnedest to make blindingly obvious. "Hell, half the time she loses interest and gives up the second you've made her—"

"I gotta pee," you cut him off abruptly in midsentence, and lurch away from the bar, ostensibly in search of a bathroom. You don't _really_ have to go, of course, you just need to get the heck _away_ before he finishes that sentence, and the mental images it gives you cause you to spontaneously combust from the inside out. And after n+1 Jager shots (where n is a ridiculously high number), _"I gotta pee"_ is just about the cleverest ruse you're able to come up with on short notice.

"Gobbling the old knob," you mutter bitterly as you stumble, shove and sidestep your way through the gyrating crowd, towards what you can only assume is the men's room. "_I'll_ give you a pole to smoke, you stupid limey bastich..."

This earns you a few odd looks, and more than a scowl or two from the people you're trying to push past.

"No, not _you_," you sigh at one (rather large) gentleman with multiple piercings in his face as he sneers at you. "I was talking to _myself_."

"Yeah, you better be," he growls, shoving your roughly against the shoulder before turning away. "Freak."

And that's when it occurs to you that your internal censor might not be working quite as well as it could be, and decide that things might go smoother for you if you didn't let yourself speak for the next little while.

Clamping your mouth shut, you fight your way through the throng, inch by crucial inch, like a salmon struggling upstream to spawn, until you finally reach the battered metal door to the rear of the club. Breathing a sigh of relief, you brace both hands against the pushbar and shove with all your might as you stumble through it...

...then gasp and blink in surprise as the chill winter air hits your like a slap in the face, and you find yourself facing the heavily graffittied brick wall of a narrow blind alley, as the first lazy flakes of an oncoming snow flurry begin to fall.

"Ohhhhhhhh _no_," you say—another one of Alex's mannerisms you've picked up—then quickly turn around to catch the door before it swings closed. Unfortunately, the shots you've spent the past hour consuming have roughly the same effect on your reflexes as they've had on your internal censor and ability to come up with a clever ruse on short notice. So not only do you _not_ catch the door, but you actually trip over your own foot and wind up running headlong into it, slamming it pretty effectively closed with your shoulder. Cursing inwardly to yourself, praying that it doesn't lock automatically, you scramble to grab the handle.

Only to find that there isn't one.

Oh. Kek.

Shivering in the cold as the snowfall begins to pick up, accumulating on your hair and shoulders, you stare blankly at the dented black door and weigh your options through the haze of n+1 Jager shots. It takes you a few moments to decide there really aren't any. Sighing in resignation, knowing that Alex will never let you live it down if (when) she finds out, you glance both ways down the alley to make sure you're alone, then reach down to tug your wand out of your pocket, and raise it in the air to fix your problem with magic.

You hesitate for a moment, as you try to decide exactly which spell to cast. _McCreary Timereary_ is out, obviously. Given how long you've been standing here like a gaping idiot, rewinding time by five seconds isn't going to help all that much. _Go Thru Mo Thru_ is usually the go-to in situations like this, but even in a room full of half-drunk college kids preoccupied with trying to jump one another's bones, _somebody_ is bound to notice you phasing through the wall faster than you can say 'Kitty Pryde'. Simply flashing yourself into the coat check or the bathroom is likewise a bad idea, especially given you haven't actually been _in_ there; you'd be equally likely to be seen as you would to materialize halfway inside a stall door. Which would be mighty embarrassing, either way.

So, what does that leave? You _could_ just resort to _Cashmerus Appearus_, zapping yourself into a sweater warm enough to keep from succumbing to hypothermia while you run back around to the front door and try to get back in...but you seriously don't relish the idea of standing in line a second time to get into a club you had less-than-zero interest in coming to in the first place. Or...you could...

...just go the frak home, already.

The thought strikes you so suddenly that it actually causes you to start. Because running away from responsibility is _so_ not usually your thing, and for some reason, that's exactly what this feels like. But, in all honesty, what's keeping you here? What's waiting for you on the other side of that door, other than a socially awkward handshake at midnight with the jealous werewolf you've been babysitting to keep him from killing anyone? The heartwarming indifference of the little sister who twisted your arm into coming, then proceded to ignore you all night? Or the agony of watching her tongue-wrestle with the complete asshat who shares your name as he paws her through her dress, and knowing that it will never—_could_ never—be you?

The saying goes that whatever you're doing at midnight on New Year's Eve sets the tone for your entire year to come. Well, nuts to that.

Sure, running home to watch the ball drop on TV in your pajamas isn't exactly any _less_ pathetic. But if you're going to be pathetic either way, at least you might as well be warm and comfortable. Setting your jaw defiantly, you raise your wand up, clutching it tightly—

—and then the door in front of you clicks open, and the hot blonde bartender pokes her head through it and looks right at you with her sparkling blue eyes. And you freeze like a frightened doe trapped in her highbeams. (Which, you admit, is totally an unchivalrous reference to her fabulous breasts, but damned if you can help yourself. Look her in the face, you cad! The face!)

"Hey, I _thought_ I saw you come out this way!" she grins. "This isn't the bathroom, by the way, but I guess you already—"

She breaks off as her eyes dart to the wand you hold aloft in mid-air, and she blinks. Twice. And then a pregnant pause hangs between you for the space of a few heartbeats, just long enough for McCreary Timereary to become completely useless to you, again. (Stupid n+1 Jager shots!)

"—figured that part out," she finally finishes, smoothly, as her eyes swivel back to land on your face, dancing with mischeif. Like how Alex's do when she's pulled a prank she can barely contain her pride over. "So listen, is that a wand in your hand, or are you just happy to see me?"

Now it's your turn to blink. This isn't exactly the reaction you were anticipating. "Ex-excuse me?"

"Sorry, couldn't resist. It's been wall-to-wall cheesy pick-up lines tonight, and I—look, never mind." She blushes slightly, then jerks her chin towards the wand you still haven't had the presence of mind to lower. "So...wizard, huh? That actually explains a lot."

"It d-does?" God, but you ask stupid questions when you're drunk and/or panicked beyond belief.

"Well, it explains why the drunk werewolf who clearly hates your guts keeps calmly buying you drinks rather than snapping and ripping your throat out, anyway," she shrugs. She pushes the door open a little further to stand framed in the doorway. "Let me guess, you've put a charm on him?"

You snort at this. "Nah. Remember the girl he came in behind? That's _her_ doing."

"You mean the tarted-up brunette? The one with her tits pushed up to her chin? She's a witch, too?"

"Wizard," you correct her automatically. "It's gender-neutral, actually. It's confusing, I know, especially to outsiders, but witchcraft is an entirely different school of magic than—"

You break off as you notice her eyes start to glaze over, and wave one hand dismissively.

"Not important. Anyway, he's dating her. _Was_ dating her. Or maybe still is, I'm not sure. I mean, _they're_ not sure."

Ugh. You wince and shake your head at how utterly insipid you sound. It's almost as though you're standing outside yourself, watching a particularly dim _Edgebono Utoosis_ clone bark incoherently at her.

"It's complicated," you finish lamely.

"Sounds like it," she smiles, then juts her chin at your wand again. "Listen, you should probably put that away before somebody else sees it, boyscout."

"Uh, right," you stammer, glancing at it and pulling it down to jam it hurriedly in your pocket. "Um, you're taking all of this awfully in stride. Do you...uh...read _Charmed & Dangerous_, or...?"

"Not exactly," she grins. Then, looking first over her left shoulder, then her right, she steps forward into the alleyway and allows the door to close most of the way, propping it open a few inches with the toe of her boot. Then, with a wink, she reaches up and brushes her hair back behind her ear on one side. And as your eyes trail along the four piercings that lead to the prominently pointed tip, it dawns on you.

"Oh, you're an elf," you say. Then, for no sane reason, you add, "Or quite possibly a Vulcan."

(Gah! Seriously, Justin?)

She gives you an amused chuckle as she brushes her hair forward again, hiding her ear. "Just a quarter-elf, actually. My mom's a half-elf."

Oh man..._her_ too? How is it that every single interesting girl you meet in the city turns out to _be_ something? Sometimes it seems as if the only actual normal people left in New York are Zeke, Harper, and your mom. And maybe Mister Laritate. Although the argument could be made that none of them are exactly what you'd call normal, either...

"So, you're name's Bartender, then?" you ask, like an idiot. "Or, um...Serving...Person?"

"Senior Partner, actually," she answers wryly. Then, off your look of confusion, she shrugs and rolls her eyes. "Yeah, yeah...so my parents aimed high. I'm pre-law at Columbia, right now. I'll grow into it. My friends call me Sen."

"But...wait...you're a _bartender_..."

"Just part-time to pay for school," she explains. "The whole 'everybody loves you' whammy isn't as strong for me as it is for my mom, so I wasn't able to score a free ride. But combined with a low-cut top, it _does_ make for pretty decent tips."

And you can't help yourself, but your eyes actually dart down to her cleavage at the mention of the words 'low-cut top'. Which, in your current state, is somewhat akin to waving a red flag in front of a bull.

"Hey!" she laughs, cupping her hand under your chin and drawing your gaze back up to her face. "Eyes up here, Lothario. Don't go shattering my illusions about you just yet, OK?"

"Sorry?" you frown, not understanding. Because, Lothario? Illusions? Huh? But she interprets it as an apology, smiles and shrugs as if to say it's alright that she caught you looking.

"So what do people call you, boyscout?" she asks.

"Justin. Just Justin. That's all. Definitely not J-Man, or anything like that, because that would be lame..."

She giggles at this.

"You're talking to a girl whose great-grandelf was named Stablemucker. 'Lame' is kind of sliding scale for us." She glances through the narrow opening of the door momentarily. "Well, Justin-just-Justin, it's been fun, but I really have to get back. So c'mon, let's get you back inside, huh?"

"Al-alright," you stammer, and dart forward clumsily to grab the door and hold it open for her. "Sorry to have been so much trouble. After you?"

She smiles at you, her eyes going soft at the edges, then nods slightly and turns to head inside. But she's barely taken a step before she turns back around and frowns up at you, wincing almost as though she's in pain.

"OK, look," she blurts out, before you can ask her what's wrong. "I know it's none of my business, so you can tell me to go to hell if you want to, but it's preoccupied all night, and I'm dying to know. So which one is she?"

Your frown deepens, your eyebrows knitting themselves together in confusion. "She whom?"

She eyes you with a mixture of amusement and concern. "The girl you're so obviously pining away for, the one you're drinking so hard to forget. Is it the redhead? The one in that weird dress with the clocks and the hourglasses all over it?"

"Harper?" you blurt out, horrified. "Oh, great Ceasar's ghost, no!"

"Ah," she says, with more than a tinge of disappointment. "So, the slutty brunette, then. There you go, shattering my illusions again, boyscout..."

"Hey, she is _not_ slutty! She's just...trying too hard tonight, is all. I think she's trying to make the werewolf jealous."

"Tsk, now _there's_ a boneheaded idea if I ever heard one," Sen says, rolling her eyes.

"That's exactly what _I_ said." You shake your head again, bitterly, gently shaking off a few flakes of snow. "But that's why I'm here, I guess. To keep things from spinning too far out of control."

"So you're her safety net," she says, matter-of-factly. "Her fallback position."

"Forever and always," you sigh to the toes of your ruined church shoes. You glance up at her and smile wryly. "_'On my honor, I will do my best, to do my duty to God and my country, and Alex Russo...'_"

Sen tilts her head to the side, and watches you silently through the falling snow.

"Er, that's the boy scout oath," you explain when she doesn't laugh, "except with her name inserted in the—"

"Alex Russo, yeah. I got it, thanks." She steps towards you, then, reaching up to brush the snow off your hair. "It doesn't _have_ to be that way, you know. You don't _have_to be her safety net."

"You only say that because you haven't met her," you say. "If you did, you'd understand that the whole world actually kind of depends on it."

"_Her_ whole world, you mean," she says, as she turns her attention from your hair to your shoulders.

"No, I mean the whole world in general," you say. "Seriously. You don't want to know how many holes she's accidentally torn in the space-time continuum. I've stitched it back together so many times that I probably qualify for a Master Seamstress merit ba—"

And then she cuts you off, suddenly, by bracing her hands on her shoulders and lifting herself up on her tiptoes to gently press her lips against yours. Your entire body stiffens in surprise, and your eyes threaten to pop clear out of their sockets as every single synapse in your poor, addled brain stops what its doing and says _'Wait, what?'_. You suddenly become very conscious of your breath whistling through your nostrils, of the fact that you're still holding the door open like an imbecile, of the way your other arm is dangling awkwardly at your side. You feel like you ought to be doing something with it—wrapping it her to pull her closer, or resting your hand on her hip or something—but you've only just _met_ this girl, and you don't want to presume, so it just kind of hangs there.

So, um, yeah. _This_ is unexpected.

After what seems like an eternity, she finally pulls away, releasing her hold on your bottom lip with a gentle, moist smack. She lowers herself back down onto her heels, smiling up at you sheepishly through her eyelashes.

"Sorry, got sick of hearing about her. Seemed like the best way to shut you up," she says. "Normally I wouldn't have done that, but I'm a little drunk. And you're a _lot_ drunk, and it was beginning to look like you weren't going to take the hint, otherwise."

"Oh," is all you manage to say in response, because half your synapses are still stuck on _'Wait, what?'_

You stare at each other for a long moment, the silence between you broken only by the muffled, pounding bass of the music inside, until she seems to make up her mind about something and clears her throat.

"Listen," she says, dropping her eyes and grinning shyly towards the toes of her boots, "I never do this—_never_, as a rule—but I get off just after three. I've got a cheap bottle of pink champagne chilling in my fridge, and _Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve_ recording on my Tivo. The plan was to sit in bed, alone, and get quietly drunk while watching the ball drop. Ring the New Year in the way God intended, albeit with the West Coast."

"Heh," you chuckle politely, even though it really wasn't all that funny. "Cheap hootch and Ryan Seacrest? Sure, sounds like part of the divine, ineffable plan to me."

"But it'd be even better if I had company," she says, as she looks back up at you through her lashes again, blue eyes dancing mischiviously. "What do you say, J-Man? Interested in helping me put the 'eff' into that ineffable plan?"

It's a good thing your synapses have already ground to a halt, because otherwise your head might explode, Scanners-style, from complete and utter disbelief. Did the ridiculously hot blonde bartender-slash-law student really just _proposition_ you? For, y'know..._naked shenanigans?_

"Are you—?" you stammer, struggling to phrase this as carefully and succinctly as possible as n +1 Jager shots will allow. "Was that intended as an invitation to a one-night stand? Because that's what I got from that, but I want to be absolutely, positively certain..."

Sen giggles and blushes, actually blushes, and it manages to be both endearingly cute and excrutiatingly sexy at the same time. Smirking sheepishly, without taking her eyes off yours, she shrugs.

"At least," she says, reaching up to brush a snowflake off the tip of your nose. "I mean, my roommate doesn't get back from her parents' place until Monday, so..."

She trails off as she lowers her hand from your nose to your lips, her fingertips ghosting ever so lightly over them.

"Look, I get that you're shy, and that I'm probably being _way_ too forward for your liking...but there's much better ways to forget someone than crawling into a bottle and pulling the cork in after you, boyscout," she says, her voice going a little husky. "Come home with me, and I promise to show you all of them."

You blink at this, and you're pretty sure your mouth drops open in awe. And something about your reaction makes her grin widely before she stands on tiptoe and kisses you again, hungrily engulfing your mouth and slipping her tongue into it to wrestle with yours.

Bazinga! This is _way_ too good to be true! Like something out of that issue of _Wiz-Smut Letters_ you found stuffed in the recliner in the lair, the one that Dad swore belonged to Uncle Kelbo. _'Dear Wiz-Smut, I never believed anything like this could actually happen, until the day it happened to me...'_

You should go for it. Totally. Why the goog not? Not only does she not mind that you're a bit of a nerd, she actually seems oddly _turned-on_ by it. And she's got everything you're looking for in a girl: blonde hair, pretty features and big blue eyes, book smarts, a sweet personality, a great sense of humor...um, an apparent fondness for boy scouts and geeks...and, let's be completely honest here, an amazing rack and a behind you could bounce a quarter off of. Heck, she even thinks poorly of Mason. She's _exactly_ your type!

Or at least what you've always _pretended_ your type is, even to yourself: the complete and utter opposite of Alex Russo.

And that's all it takes. Just the one thought— the one, peripheral thought of _her_—for you to stop kissing back this amazing, incredible girl who's so obviously completely into you. Because, goddamn. God. Damn.

Sen notices immediately, of course, and breaks off the kiss to frown up at you in confusion. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," you lie, even though you're terrible at it even when you're sober, and it's not like n +1 Jager shots have improved anything. "It's just...you seem like a really nice girl, Sen, and I'm not sure this is such a good idea..."

"Well, your judgment is pretty impaired right now, J-Man, so how 'bout you let me be the judge of that?"

Sen smiles, her eyes softening at the corners again as she reaches up to cup your left cheek in the palm of her hand.

"Hey, it's OK, boyscout. Really. It's irresistably sweet of you to worry, but you're not taking advantage, if that's what you're feeling guilty about." She lets out a sharp, self-deprecating laugh. "Hell, if anything, _I'm_ the one who should be feeling sketchy, here..."

"It's not that," you shake your head, lifting your hand to pull hers away from your face. "Look, it's not that I don't appreciate the offer, because I _so_ do, but—"

And that's when you're cut off by the shrill, piercing scream that erupts from the club, through the door that you're still holding open.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Man, for all of Alex's jokes about Justin being a completely undateable dork, an inordinate number of ridiculously attractive girls tend to go for him, huh? (For those wondering, the part of Sen in this chapter is being played by a young Kristen Bell, circa her appearance in the television series _Veronica Mars_, who has herself been quoted as saying she loves nerds.)

Speaking of nerds (and the ridiculously attractive girls who dig them), thanks go once again to my incredibly patient and supportive beta, **Not Just a Nerd, **whose input on this story was invaluable. Also to all and sundry who have taken the time to read, review, favorite and alert. It's always very much appreciated.

Just one chapter left to go in this one, kids. Tune in next time for the exciting finale!


	4. Chapter 4

**iv.**

The first scream is quickly followed by another, and then several all at once, until the distant thumping bass of the music is almost completely drowned out by the unmistakable sound of a terrified mob quickly descending into full-fledged panic. You exchange a brief glance with Sen before you dart back inside, just ahead of her, your wand suddenly clutched tightly in your hand without you being conscious of having grabbed for it.

Fortunately for both of you, the crowd appears to be stampeding in the other direction, towards the front exit. And away from where Douchebag lies on his back on the dance floor, in the middle of a widening pool of blood, screaming and writhing as the werewolf pins him down and proceeds to tear his throat out with his teeth.

Somewhere behind you, Sen gasps. Your stomach lurches and your balls tighten even as you raise your wand and wordlessly hurl a blast of eldritch energy towards them. It catches Mason in the side, sending him tumbling through the plastic cups that litter the floor, whimpering like a kicked puppy. He recovers quickly and wheels on you, growling, eyes wild, blood dripping from his fanged maw and his clawed hands. And it's like that time in Transylvania all over again, except worse. Much, much worse. If only because you weren't drunk off your ass, then.

Mason crouches down on all fours and starts to charge, so you desperately fire again. He doesn't even try to dodge, just snarls in fury and pain as he catches the second blast full in the chest and keeps on coming. You back up half a step, panic clawing at your throat, fighting to keep your wand-hand steady as he closes, leaps for you...

...and suddenly howls as he bursts into flame in mid-air, green fire that consumes him instantly, cracking and peeling his flesh from blackening bones right before your very eyes. He twists and contorts in agony, throwing off his trajectory and causing him to slam to the floor just a few feet shy of where you stand. His body literally explodes into a cloud of ash on impact. You cough and sputter as it gets into your eyes, your nose, you mouth, even as his final tortured scream still echoes in your ears. It sounds surprisingly, hauntingly human.

Suddenly nauseous, you drop your wand to the ground with a clatter and frantically begin scrubbing at your eyes with the heels of your hands, desperate to see, desperate to get what's left of him _off_ you. And as your vision clears, and the cloud of ash begins to dissipate, you finally see Alex staring back at you through it, her eyes wide, her face sickly pale beneath her dark make-up, and her wand still outstretched.

And as the bright neon-green light begins to fade from the tip of it, you finally realize what's just happened. You didn't kill Mason. Alex did.

Sweet motherfucking Christ, _Alex_ killed Mason. To save _you_.

To her credit, Sen is the first to shake off the shock of the moment and _move_, brushing past you and skidding through the widening pool of blood to drop to her knees at Dou—at the other Justin's side. Frowning down at him, she brings two fingers to what's left of his mangled throat, feeling for a pulse. Then, without a shred of self-consciousness, she quickly shrugs out of her blouse, balls it up and presses it to the wound, trying to stem the spurting torrent of blood. Not long from now, you'll have the good grace to be disgusted at yourself when you remember the way—even as you watch in numb shock—you can't help but notice how incredible her breasts look as they strain against her black, lacy bra. But you can't, and they do.

"Yo, witch-girl?" Sen says, looking frantically up at Alex. "Hey! Witch girl!"

Alex doesn't react, just continues staring at you, at the drifting remnants of ash that hang in the air between you, unblinking despite the tears seeping out the corners of her eyes, ruining her makeup and running dark down her cheeks. Not getting a response right away, Sen grunts and snaps her fingers at her. Alex jolts at the sound as if she's been slapped awake, and finally lowers her wand as she blinks at Sen. "Wh-what?"

"Your boyfriend is _dying_ here, that's what," Sen says, turning her attention back to the other Justin, pressing hard against her balled-up blouse as blood soaks through it, turning her hands pink. "So either make with a healing spell, or call 911. But make up your mind quick, because I don't think he has long."

Trembling, Alex brings one hand up to cover her mouth, looking down at the other Justin as if seeing him for the first time, and starts shaking her head furiously.

"No," she says, her voice shaking. "He's not my—" She breaks off and looks back up at you, eyes pleading even as they overflow with tears. "Justin, I...I didn't mean to...please..."

And that's all it takes to finally snap you out of your own stupor, and push you into action. Because Alex rarely lets herself cry in front of anyone, much less you. And she _never_ says please. With a skill borne from years of practice at cleaning up her messes, you tuck your shock and your fear—and your n+1 Jager shots—neatly into the back of your brain, nod once at her in reassurance, then drop down to your knees next to Sen, and go to work.

"I think I ought to be able to keep him from bleeding out," you say to her, the tip of your wand glowing royal blue as you point it at Other!Justin's ruined throat. "Maybe ease the pain a little. But stabilizing him is another thing entirely, and healing him outright is out of the question. Either would take a wizard way more experienced than me."

Sen gives you a puzzled look. "OK, but can't you just zap him to a hospital, or whatever it is you call it? Or, I dunno, freeze time around him or something?"

You shake your head sharply, as you wave your wand back and forth over him in as businesslike a manner as you can manage. "You can't teleport somebody who's had a bad blow to the head. If he has a concussion, flashing him could make it worse. And to stop time I'd have to hop on one foot, which I'm not sure—"

"Then _improvise_ something, Justin!" Alex whines. _"Just help him! Please!"_

"I'm trying!" you snap back. Because improvisation has always been more _her_ thing than yours, and you really have no clue how the fuck this is supposed to work, if you're honest. The weekend Emergency First Aid course you took at Tribeca Prep didn't exactly cover treatment for rogue werewolf attacks, and even your Monster Hunter training was pretty well limited to 'kill it before it kills you'. But running a medical tricorder back and forth over the patient is what Bones McCoy would do on _Star Trek_, fixing whatever was wrong as if by magic, so you try and work with what you know.

What you wouldn't give for a hypo-spray right about now, though...

"He's still _bleeding_, Justin!" Alex insists. "Try _harder_!"

"Dammit Alex," you growl. "I'm a wizard, not a doctor!"

"Just keep him alive for a few more minutes," Harper calls, blessedly, from across the room. "I'm on the phone with 911, now. They've got an ambulance on the way."

You glance up, surprised that she's still here, and see her crouched by the bar, cell phone pressed to her ear. Good old Harper, always there in a pinch. Runs away screaming from awkward conversations, but never from real danger, not when the two of you really need her. It's times like these you actually wish you _could_ feel something for her, Alex and Zeke be damned...

Zeke. Jesus, poor Zeke. He sits next to Harper on the floor in the fetal position, hugging his knees and rocking back and forth, whimpering. He looks even more frightened than Alex does, if that's possible. Harper rubs his back comfortingly between his shoulder blades with her free hand, but judging from his thousand-yard stare, he's barely even aware that she's there. Yeah, there's definitely a _Simplify Your Mind_ spell in his very near future...

Can't worry about that now, though. Shooting a tight, grateful smile at Harper—and a quick glance at Alex to make sure she's still with you—you return your focus back to Other!Justin, desperately willing his blood to stay the hell inside his body.

"Look, are you _sure_ you're all right to do this?" Sen asks quietly into your ear, still holding her ruined shirt against the gushing wound, even as it glows blue around her hand. "It's just, your hand is shaking, and you've had an awful lot to drink. For all we know, you might be making it _worse_..."

"Shut up! He is _not_ making it worse!" Alex snarls, before you can answer, glaring fiercely at Sen through her tears. "He'll be fine. Justin knows what he's doing."

You really don't, actually, but it's nice to know it at least _looks_ convincing. Sen snorts in annoyance, but doesn't say anything in return. Silence settles over you, save for Zeke's whimpering and the uneven breathing of Other!Justin, as you all strain to listen for the help that's supposedly on its way. Seconds seem to stretch into hours, then into _days_, and you're actually on the verge of breaking out into desperate prayer, when finally, thankfully, you hear the distant whine of an ambulance siren, gradually growing louder as it approaches.

"Oh, thank God!" Alex cries, then bolts for the front door, hopefully to flag the ambulance down and _not_to run away from the scene of the crime, though knowing Alex, both are equally likely. You risk taking your eyes off Other!Justin for just a second, watching her her go—and yes, fixating on her (incredible) ass, which you'll also be disgusted about later—before wiping the sweat off your forehead with the back of your free hand and turning your attention back to the tip of your wand.

"Sen," you mutter desperately, "tell him to stay with us."

She blinks at you in confusion. "What? I don't—"

"I've read somewhere that, for some reason, accident victims tend to give up the fight to live as soon as they sense help's within reach," you explain. "And his breathing's getting shallower. Maybe if you use your elf-mojo..." You shrug helplessly. "I don't know, it's worth a shot."

Sen nods, then leans forward towards Other!Justin's face, reaching up with her free hand to stroke his hair gently away from his face as she whispers in his ear. "Hold on. Just a few more minutes. Please, just hold on..."

And then suddenly two EMT's are on top of you, pushing you and Sen out of the way and barely giving your glowing wand a second glance as they position themselves over Other!Justin's body, and go to work saving his life. You get up off your knees and back off a few steps to give them room, slipping your wand into your back pocket as you watch over their shoulders. They speak to each other in short, clipped sentences, only half of which you can really comprehend. And you're so absorbed in what they're doing that you don't realize that Alex is right next to you until she wraps her arms around your waist, and lays her head on your shoulder.

"Is he gonna be OK?" she asks, in a tiny, quivering voice. "Please say he's gonna be OK!"

"They're doing the best they can," you say, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and squeezing her tightly. "They're trying to get him stabilized enough that they can risk moving him." That much, at least, you've understood.

It's a tense few minutes, but the EMT's do finally get a temporary bandage onto him, and lift him onto the gurney. As they urgently gather up their equipment and start rolling him towards the door, one of the men finally glances up at you and Alex, acknowledging your presence for the first time.

"We're taking him to Bellevue," he says quickly. "We can take one in the truck if someone wants to ride along back with him, but we've gotta move."

You glance down at Alex, even as her chocolate brown eyes swivel up towards yours, tightening at the corners in a way that would be imperceptible to nearly anyone else, but which you interpret as fearful hesitancy. "I'll—"

"No, I'll go," Sen cuts her off. Both of you glance over at her in surprise, to see her staring back at you, resolute. You'd quite honestly forgotten she was even there, for a second.

"You?" Alex asks, her voice equal parts surprise and relief. "But you don't even know him!"

"I think I know him pretty intimately, at this point," Sen says, gesturing to herself, her skin smeared and her clothes soaked through in patches with his blood. "I want to see this through. What's his name?"

"Justin," Alex says quietly, looking from Sen, back up to you, and then to her again. "His—his name is Justin, too."

Sen snorts in response, tilting her head slightly to one side, her eyes tightening at the corners.

"Of course it is," she says directly to you, with a barely detectable edge of bitterness, as though she knows something you don't. "You'll meet us there?"

"We'll catch up," you nod. Actually, you'll probably beat them—there's nothing to stop you and Alex from flashing yourselves there, after all—but, though you doubt they're paying attention, you still can't exactly say that with the EMT's in the room. "Before you know it. We'll be there in a blink"

"Yeah, I'll bet," she says, backing towards the exit. Sen gives you one last look, her eyes flicking between you and Alex. And you're suddenly very conscious of how tightly she's clinging to you, how close you're holding her...but neither of you let go. Sen's eyes go soft at the edges for a second before she finally turns her back on you and hurries after the EMTs, leaving the two of you alone with Harper and poor, catatonic Zeke.

"She seemed really nice," Harper says tiredly, true to form, into the silence that follows.

"Yeah," you sigh, watching after her. "She really did, didn't she?"

Alex doesn't say anything in reply, just tightens her hold on your waist and buries her face in your chest, and quietly begins to cry.

"I didn't mean for any of this to happen!" she gulps, fighting for breath between sobs. "I was just messing with him! I knew dating a Justin, _any_ Justin, would drive him crazy, but I didn't mean to..." She trails off and looks up at you, red-rimmed eyes burning with equal parts anger and remorse. "You were supposed to _be there_, to stop him before things got out of hand! Where the hell _were_ you?"

"I'm sorry," you say, genuinely meaning it. "You're right, I should have been here. I'm so sorry..."

"I wanted him to flip out just enough that I could break up with him for _good_ this time, without it being my fault!" Alex cries, and you're not sure that she's even heard your apology, much less registered it. "I wanted to win. I wanted him gone. But now what's-his-face is hurt, and Mason is...is..."

"Shhhhhh," you murmur, as she drops her forehead back down onto your chest, her body shaking as it's wracked with sobs. You bring one hand up to gently cradle the back of her head, and tilt your head down to press your lips to her ear, whispering to her that everything will be OK. That's a bit of an exaggeration, of course—the police will undoubtedly be waiting at the hospital with questions to be answered. Emergency Wizards too, likely, depending on whether or not word of this gets back to the Wizards' Council, which it somehow always seems to. But none of that matters, not for her. Because you'll take care of it. You'll lie, argue, bargain, even take the blame upon yourself, if you have to. Anything to keep her out of trouble, to keep her safe. Just like you always have. Just like you always will.

And then you jolt in surprise as your Captain Jim Bob Sherwood wristwatch suddenly begins to beep rapidly, with the alarm that you'd set earlier in the evening, when you'd still had hope that you'd be back home on the couch watching the ball drop by now.

The saying goes that whatever you're doing at midnight on New Year's Eve sets the tone for your entire year to come.

You reach up with your other hand and press the button on your watch to silence the alarm, then return it to the small of your little sister's back, holding her close as you comfort her in her hour of need, murmuring promises to fix it, to find a way to make everything better, even as you inwardly, silently burn for her.

Hail to the new year, same as the old year.

**—30—**

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> A final hearty thank you to **Not Just a Nerd** for her much-needed beta assistance on this story, and also to **tilante** for his help in deciding how it should end. (Though if you didn't like it, I assure you the fault is all mine.)

Much gratitude, as always, goes to everyone who's had the time and patience to read, review, favorite or put this uneven mess on alert. As an experiment in working outside my usual style, I think it was at least partially successful—I don't expect I'll be writing angst again any time soon, but writing in second-person from Justin's POV was much more comfortable (and fun) than I would have expected. And I'm clearly going to have to start using both Zeke and Mason a lot more than I have been.

Thanks for sticking it out with me on this one, guys. I really appreciate it. For those of you who may have been quietly wishing I'd knock it off with the passive-aggressive angst, already, and get back to writing fluffy, sexy hi-jinks, there _may_ be some fan service coming your way in the near future... ;)


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